erik, the space out junkie's a kid who's humble, soft spoken, and kind --but if you're one of his closest friends, i guess you'd have known better.
he's a wolf in sheep's clothing and that's that. generally, he'd tell you he's fifty thousand wordings, countless textbooks and a hundred libraries complex to be condensed in such a minuscule edit info box --but this is a blog, nothing's too minuscule for a blog.
he spaces out all the time --hence, the title- and his hobbies include pushing boundaries, shock value, and reinvention. procrastination's his guiltiest pleasure and he shifts paradigms all too well. intellect intrigues him --though too much of it and he's frightened to the point of withdrawal.
he says he's always had an affair with words and he feels that he took it for granted for the longest time, so now that he’s on a quarter life crisis he feels ever so determined to milk whatever art form he could out of it --hence, the blog.

When moments, fleeting, like common people you previously chanced upon but casually forgot, throughout the course of your jaded life, takes a few good forehead wrinkles to remember, vaguely. Like the word refuge, or disarming --strange, yet leaves a slightly odd nostalgic feel.

Like how I made myself breakfast when you held me captive that day, willingly, in childish joy, like all was just a playful game, and that huge hotel room was our playground --those blissful hours just before you left, the way your kiss promised me you'd come back. The feel of longing and content and peculiar freedom as I woke up after a good six hour sleep, after the sex, after you left, after your promise. As I walked on unfamiliar corridors, elevators and floors, quaint streets and Makati alleyways on weekends serene. As I rummage through convenience store shelves looking for what to eat, what to eat…

A moment where people never cared, and the bellmen half smiling as I went back, and the walls, the bed sheets never seemed to mind --I felt so wide-eyed and obscure, which is fine because I knew I meant everything to you.

I remember feeling whole –caught, half-anticipating, half- what's the word...something about not caring, living in the moment, in stillness... perhaps, secure? ...peaceful? ...I can't be sure...

I remember you and your scent.

I remember each time you held the door for me, on those secret dates we had. The way you squeeze my fragile hands, on the off chance that no one was looking. Moments, forever etched in my memory.

The look --ah, yes the look you gave.

Of wonder and excitement, I was a breath of fresh air, you say.

I remember the first time, the first invite; you just had to have me drawn to your corner. “What’s a cute kid doing all by himself in a quiet cafe?” I remember smiling, sensing, hoping that that could be the start of something wonderful. The simple advances, the careful steps we took, towards each other, it’s interesting now how we inched our way closer to what we were never really sure of. But we couldn’t care less, only ‘cause we both were thrilled at what could possibly come of it.

I remember holding you as you fell asleep. I remember looking at you. Kissing your closed eyes --my way of telling you how safe it was to dream. On the off chance that this might be it, that I, that we, might perhaps, have a chance --my way of trying to prove to you that dreams can come true.

I remember clutching your pillow as I tried to inhale your scent, the moment I realized it's morning already --and for the last time, you were gone.

I remember bits and pieces of our encounters, the good ones,

Ones I’m willing to remember, and keep...

Because when parting, harsh, like the heaviest of traumas you desperately try to put behind, lost between the vivid and the lies, takes a few good swigs of beer to unlearn, momentarily. Like the words, trust, rely and expect, paired with too much --trite, yet still pokes sharp stings on your weary heart.

It’s true that in sleep, the moment you start questioning a dream, you wake up only to realize how silly it was to think it’s something you can hold on to. You fumble, as each strand of thought escapes your grasp. Those moments will stay as such, and really, that’s all they’ll ever be: intangible memories, encounters, dreams… Much like these flashbacks...

sad. very excruciatingly sad.these are the times i'm secretly afraid of.when his skin grazing on yours, his head on your arm, the sound of hair as your fingers run through it, the smell of him playing on your lip -- when all these becomes cached somewhere in your brain and be randomly accessed from time to time.absolutely mortifying.

"It’s true that in sleep, the moment you start questioning a dream, you wake up only to realize how silly it was to think it’s something you can hold on to. You fumble, as each strand of thought escapes your grasp. Those moments will stay as such, and really, that’s all they’ll ever be: intangible memories, encounters, dreams…"